Abattoir
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: The second tourney ends badly for Mileena, Kitana, and the men in their lives. Blood, guts and a butchered Splashdown quote. Whoop de doo.
1. I: Now

**Disclaimer and Notes:** I don't own Mortal Kombat, a fact for which I'd suspect Midway Entertainment Ltd. and Ed Boon are eternally grateful. This is AU: one possible ending for the events of MKII. Mileena's viewpoint. (Like I ever write anything else. Please.)

**Abattoir**

By DS84

_Now that blood's been shed  
There will be no crowds today  
Tell them Taurus killed the tamer_

_--Splashdown, "Lost Frontier"_

**I: Now**

There's a certain smell to fresh death. It's an assault, a punch in the face. Strong? Gods, it reeks. It's as if someone grabbed a handful of shit and blood and rammed it up my nose. Only that's not quite right—that's not _all_ of it. There's rot in it, and vomit. And the blood is so much stronger than the others. Real and almost wet down the back of my throat, heavy and thick, like molten glue. It always makes me want to sneeze and gag at the same time. And human blood, in particular, is like metal. Iron. Copper. Rust. Rats in the alley, rats in the garbage, rats in the dark.

That's all we are, really. Rats in the dark.

Oh, we pretend otherwise. We play soldier, play royalty, the good daughter and the loyal general. We pace and strut, we give and take orders as if we know what they mean. We do our duty by daylight, and make plots after nightfall. We have words in the dark, whispers in the dark. And now and then, in the dark, we reach for each other.

That's what this is about, isn't it? The scrabbling of rats.

No, he says. That's not it at all, he insists, a little desperately. He tells me again how beautiful I am, how perfect I am, and how wonderful it is, everything we do.

Stop lying to me!

Why am I crying? Damned if I know. I think it has something to do with the body at my feet—the scraps of body, really. We did a number on the poor boy. If I could move, the rug would squelch and slurp underfoot, thick and dark as mud. If I could move. I can't. I'm reeling from the stink, knees quaking, but I can't pick my feet up and walk. I don't think I could take the sound--the slurping, sucking pop of setting body weight against soaked cloth.

So much for Earth's champion. Odd that it should bother me now, now, afterward. Revenge is sweet. Of course it is. I know that better than anyone. Let's not mince words: he was like a mouthful of silk. That was what it was like, eating silk, wet and heavy and too rich for its own good. Certainly too rich for mine. It was too easy to kill him. Does that make any sense? I was too willing.

I _enjoyed_ it. A lot. A few minutes ago.

I feel sick, now. Standing here like this, staring at what's left of another planet's one true hope. My insides are squeezing with the urge to turn themselves upside-down. Maybe I really do have morals. Maybe.

Personally, I think it's the smell.

The feeling of living hands on my shoulders helps. Steady pressure meant to get my attention. Dry palms—Baraka had the forethought to wipe them clean. For me? How nice.

His words are soft, a warm, gruff litany past red-rimmed lips: "It'll be alright. It'll get better. It always gets better. It'll be alright."

You would know, darling. You bit him first.


	2. II: Then

**II: Then**

_I screamed and hit the floor face first. Light and pain jolted through my skull, chased by queasy blackness. The burning itch of a scalp wound brought me 'round moments later. I wished it hadn't. My nose poured blood, but it wasn't broken. The world was blurry. That was a problem._

"_My brethren never saw you coming." Hands, wiry male hands, grabbed me by the throat and yanked me to my feet. "They never heard your footfalls."_

_I knew that voice. I'd heard it often enough in the arena. It spoke soft, killing words with the twanging lilt of Canton._

"_You," I managed. I was too busy trying to kick his feet out from under him to talk much. The first blow went wide, and the next. I tried to elbow him and lost my balance.  
_

_His hands were warm. Hot. Intensely hot as he squeezed my throat. He dug in with his knuckles, with his fingernails. My skin blistered from the heat, peeling open. I screamed. I pushed for a scream and got a low, muffled gurgle instead. I tried to kick him again. It was no good. I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe. My heel bumped uselessly against his ankle._

"_Did they beg for mercy? Did you show them any?"_

_Mortal fool. Hatred made him into what he fought: a monster. He spent his life hunting monsters--hunting mutants. He hated them. All of them, because of what they did to his temple._

_It was an ugly temple, anyway._

_Besides, they had no choice. It was their lives or those of their enemies. Homes, children—humans are not the only ones with such things. But that doesn't matter. It never matters. _

_Rats don't matter to human beings._

_He hated me, too. I fought for those he despised, and I loved the man who ended his world. I was counting on that same man's arrival to save my life. _

_The Chosen One had a horrible sense of timing. I'd arranged to meet Baraka in this very room, to discuss the surrender of Kahn's soldiers to Kitana. After all, it had to be done such that would cast their new Empress in the best possible light, and never mind that Kahn had died, not in single combat, but from an enchanted dagger to the back._

_True to form, Baraka was right on time. And he was not at all pleased. _

_His lips flexed back until it seemed he had none, exposing five inches of bluish steel. His gums were white at the edges from the pressure. I'd never seen him snarl like that. He even _smelled_ angry. Hot, sharp outrage rolled off him in waves that set the hair on my arms prickling. He flew across the carpet and slammed his elbow into the back of Liu's head. _

_The Chosen One stood stock-still for a moment, then pitched forward. He made no outcry—or maybe he did. It was impossible to tell with Baraka's arm coiled over his face. Liu had the sense to struggle, and to let go of me. He kicked at me in passing as I scrambled out of the way. _

_He'd run out of options and decided to try—of all things—biting. A half-moon of smudged pink rectangles blossomed on Baraka's arm where Liu pressed just deep enough. As I lurched to my feet, Liu smashed his heel down against Baraka's shin. I heard it bounce, a sharp clear impact. Bones popped as they twisted sideways. Baraka flinched, breath hissing past his teeth. He growled in his throat and didn't let go._

_Liu's eyes widened, the whites going bloodshot as he began to struggle in earnest. It was worse than useless. When an angry mutant grabs hold of you, only death lets you go. Outworlders know this from childhood. Liu learned it the hard way. _

_His left foot trembled, and he turned a dark shade of blue under the brassy surface tones of his skin. There was a new scent in the air, acrid and sweaty. Fear. He was afraid. The struggle for breath made him purple._

_I've always adored purple. _

_I smiled._

_Baraka smiled back and put a sword in him. The entry wound was jagged, too shallow, thanks to Liu's flopping about like a hooked fish. That first stab caught mainly skin. The second snagged on bone, making Liu gasp. He jerked as if electrocuted, whimpering when the sword scraped past a rib. He was screaming, one long tortured yowl, blotted out by Baraka's arm. _

"_Scream, Chosen One." The words startled me, raw, gritty sounds that I didn't recognize. My voice trembled; my hands shook until I bunched them into fists. _"_That's how it feels. Scream all you like." He didn't need my encouragement. I paced closer. "No one can hear you, no one will know. Nobody cares. Go on. Scream."_

_Baraka, tired of the game, whipped Liu's head back. The bones in his neck cracked in quick succession. It was the sound of wet wood, a young tree wrenched until it splintered apart. Liu was dead before he even hit the floor._

_Whoever put down white carpeting should have been more careful. It won't ever come clean._


	3. III: Now

**III: Now**

I ought to thank Baraka for saving my life. I should probably thank him for dinner, too. But this damned carpet stinks and my throat is killing me and I think I might faint.

How good of him to catch me before I fall. He's warm and solid and so very strong. If I passed out it would make no difference; he's hefted me over his shoulder before with as much ease as swatting a fly.

"We should leave now."

He's practical as ever, and I'm in no mood or shape to argue. The guards will change shifts, soon, and send someone over to investigate. It's standard procedure. That has him worried.

I can't blame him. It worries me, too. Self-preservation is always an issue once the killing urge recedes. Nothing matters in its grip, that white-hot anger, curling and red at the edges. Murderous. How did we get to be so angry?

I let him turn me 'round and pull me away. I try not to feel the rug sliding underfoot.

There's a thunderous collision against the door from the other side, metal crashing on wood. Suddenly the damned carpet doesn't matter so much. The guards suspect something already, though how is beyond me. Except for my scream at the beginning, the whole thing unfolded in relative silence.

The door shivers on its hinges, groaning with the effort of holding itself up. Right--time to go. But where, and how?

Baraka's muttering, planning frantically under his breath: the window. We can get out and cross the landing, make it to the next window down and kick it in—that's more guest apartments. From there, we can make a run for the stairs. It's either that, or a long drop to a quick death on the paving stones.

I push a protest through my aching throat: "Not much of a plan."

"It's all we've got."

I hate it when he's right. He scoops me up, with a word or two about how I'm in no condition to run.

"Neither are you."

I don't care if he _is_ right. I do not like being carried around like a rag doll. For one thing, he's not exactly well enough to go jogging with a girl in his arms. For another, he's covered in human sweat and blood and filth from grappling with Liu.

Then again, I'm far from clean, myself.


End file.
